


Victory

by luzial



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Romance, Short One Shot, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-20 16:10:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6015940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luzial/pseuds/luzial
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I see so many headcanons that feature a super confident, smooth Solas, and that isn’t quite how I see things. So … have a little Solavellan ficlet for Valentine’s Day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Victory

It was all too easy to track the movements of Skyhold’s residents from the makeshift library in the rotunda, even if one wasn’t specifically attempting to do so. The magister had tried to focus upon his reading, but the dense tome that outlined the genealogy and achievements of several dozen generations of Tevinter nobility simply wasn’t capturing his attention.

What _was_ particularly interesting, however, were the movements of the apostate on the level below him. Dorian had never particularly understood how Solas was able to concentrate on his studies while surrounded by the echoing voices of the researchers and mages in the library and Leliana’s crows on the rotunda’s highest level. Yet day after day, the elf went about his business, apparently happy to be immersed in the enveloping din.

Today, however, Dorian watched as he paced anxiously around the study. Solas stopped for a few moments at a time - staring at the frescoes he had painted, or perching on the edge of his chair to read and reread the same pages of one of his books - before heaving a frustrated sigh and moving on once again.

The Inquisitor seemed to be similarly agitated. Though she was already a familiar face in the rotunda, she had passed by more often than usual today. Several times now Lavellan had stopped to “visit” him or to comb through the meager offerings the Inquisition’s library had borrowed from willing (or otherwise persuaded) Orlesian nobles. Each time she had laughed just a little too much and spoken just a touch too loudly. And each time her laugh spilled down into the study below, Dorian noted with amusement how Solas thrust his nose deeper into his books.

What a peculiar holiday, the magister wondered. How odd for a day supposedly devoted to the celebration of love to inspire such acute agitation.

After Lavellan dropped by for the fifth time, he watched with amusement as Solas finally made his way to the flight of stairs that led to the library above. Simultaneously, Lavellan - who had conspicuously avoided looking over the railing to the room below the entire day - made her way to the _top_ of those stairs. From his unique perch, Dorian watched as Solas stood at the bottom, visibly fighting with himself, and Lavellan stood at the top, clenching and unclenching her fists. Thanks to the curvature of the rotunda’s walls, neither could see that the other was waiting just beyond the bend.

The magister very nearly yelled in exasperation when he watched each of them turn on their heels and walk away from the staircase.

It was after sunset when Lavellan returned again. This time, he beckoned her to the edge of the balcony and, though she was hesitant, she finally joined him. Solas stood staring at one of his murals again, his back to them. A handful of books lay open upon his desk.

Privacy be damned, the magister thought. She deserved to know.

He pointed a finger toward the largest book on the top of the stack, and Lavellan’s gaze followed. A delicate gust of wind - one that certainly might have floated in from a nearby window and hadn’t necessarily been summoned from the Fade - flipped through the book until it came to rest at a piece of parchment that had been pressed between two pages.

Dorian had watched the evolution of the portrait with interest. He had seen the number of times Solas had started and restarted, smudging the charcoal lines that framed her jaw and nose. He’d watched as the apostate had spent an entire day perfecting her eyes, an afternoon on her lips - everything drawn from memory.

The Inquisitor grasped his arm for a moment, her eyes wide as she took in the drawing below. But a moment later, she released him and shook her head.

“Oh, come on!” Dorian hissed at her.

“I can’t,” she sighed.

“You _won’t_ ,” he corrected.

“It’s just -” Lavellan gripped the banister angrily, though Dorian couldn’t quite discern whether the anger was directed inward or otherwise. “It’s just that I would prefer if _he_ told _me_.”

The magister laughed at this, and she frowned at him as if wounded. He hadn’t meant to be cruel, but the ridiculousness of it was simply too much to bear.

“Oh, my dear,” Dorian chuckled. “If you wait for him to speak the words, you’ll likely be old and grey before you hear them.

“You’ve won his heart. _Now go and claim it_.”

With a growing smirk, the Inquisitor turned from him. He heard her muffled footfalls as she raced to the archway and down the stairs, leather padding softly against stone. Solas heard it too, he saw, as the apostate turned from where he stood by the murals and gazed at the entryway expectantly.

The magister retreated once again to his alcove, deciding that perhaps today was a good day to read the unabridged history of the House of Deleron after all.  



End file.
